


Hidden Faces

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Broken Bones, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: Dimitri learns four things about Sylvain during the war.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	Hidden Faces

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case it wasn't clear by the tags and the summary mentioning "during the war," this fic takes place when Dimitri is 'feral.' I did not tag this fic with Feral Dimitri because the fic is from Dimitri's POV. Because it does touch on his mental state and rationalizations of his impulses, I wouldn't call this version of him 'feral.' He's not quite in his right mind, but he's not a wild beast, either. So please tread cautiously if that's not your thing. 
> 
> Also Sylvain gets hurt. Quite a bit. That's what the violence tag is for, though it's not gratuitous.

Dimitri learns four things about Sylvain during the war. 

The first is that Sylvain is unafraid. 

He learns this the night of the would-be Millennium Festival. Hours after killing those rats infesting the monastery, Dimitri stands at the cathedral’s broken altar, under the fading light from the remaining sliver of a waning moon, staring into nothing as his thoughts and feelings rage within him, his own mind melding with the whispers of his ghosts. 

_Kill her_ , they tell him. _Make her pay. Make things right. Set us free. Offer us her head._ Over and over and over again, until Dimitri’s body itches with the need to move, to run, to seek out Edelgard and kill her, goddess help whoever stands in his way. The thoughts, the words, the feelings, the desperation swirl and meld together, build into a frenzy, congeal and solidify into a force that threatens to crush Dimitri under its weight –

And then it all stops, cut through by the sound of a mud-caked heel against grimy tile.

 _Someone is here_ , the ghosts whisper. His father at his ear, Glenn at his back. _They’re looking for you._

“I do not want to be found.”

More footsteps. Metal. Armour. Slow, measured, even. Not an enemy. Still, the hairs on the back of Dimitri’s neck stand on end. Whoever is here had either not heard him, or had not cared.

“Leave.” He does not turn around. 

“Heh. Is that any way to talk to an old friend?” 

The voice is unexpected. Dimitri turns; Sylvain enters his shallow field of vision, arms held high above him, bent at the elbows so he can rest his head on his hands. An old habit, meant to be disarming. 

“Behind you,” Dimitri growls. Sylvain raises a brow, glances behind him out of the corner of his eye.

“There’s nobody there.” 

There is. That’s not – “Your _hands_!” Dimitri’s own tense at his sides, fingers itching for a sword, a spear, anything. He watches, snarling, as Sylvain splays his fingers and raises his palms, holding them up above his head.

Empty. No weapons. 

Dimitri’s shoulders drop. “What do you want?” 

Sylvain lowers his hands. They rest by his sides -- not quite hanging, but not doing anything, either. “I came to see you.” 

He steps forward. Dimitri steps back. “What do you _want_?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer. He keeps walking. Dimitri snarls. “Stay back!” 

Sylvain ignores him. Glenn screams at Dimitri, tells him to _move, get out of here, he’s going to kill you, how can you avenge us if you’re dead?_ ; Father tells him _fight him, kill him, defend yourself!_

Sylvain walks through them. 

He stops a mere half-pace in front of Dimitri. Reaches for him, touches his arm. “I had to see if you were real,” he whispers, as if anything louder might shatter whatever illusion he thinks he might be seeing. The voices of the dead grow louder in Dimitri’s ears, nearly drowning him out: _fight him hurt him get him away he will hurt you he will kill you do not get distracted—_

“Felix said this is the real you.” Sylvain almost laughs, oblivious to the ghosts screaming around him. “I wanted to…” 

Dimitri grabs his wrist. Twists it, hard. Sylvain cries out, loud enough and in such harmony with the dead that Dimitri almost doesn’t hear the _snap_ of his breaking bone. He throws Sylvain to the ground, steps over his body as Sylvain hisses and cradles his wrist to his chest. 

Dimitri leaves the cathedral, abandoning him to the ghosts.

And Sylvain laughs. 

* * *

The second thing Dimitri learns about Sylvain is that he is reckless. 

He thinks he may have always known this, but had never truly noticed it before now. Ironic that it takes losing an eye for Dimitri to see the way Sylvain throws himself at the enemy, fighting them bodily and without concern for himself, drenching himself in their blood and in his own before standing above their corpses, victorious. He is powerful, and he is dangerous, and he is foolish; but most of all, he seems sad. 

He is reckless at home, too. Or as close to home as they can get while at war. He drinks, he stays up late, he carouses. Old habits from his youth, rekindled in the safety of the monastery. _A holy place for unholy habits,_ he had joked once, many years ago. _You’re not going to stop me, so why not come along?_

These days, Sylvain’s voice often joins the ghosts’. Memories of who he used to be, carefree and – not _happy_ , but alive. His laughter had been light, then. Joyous. Dimitri clings to the sound of it until it turns into the harsh, rasping, bitter thing he’d heard from the creature on the floor of the cathedral.

He remembers it as he tries to kill Sylvain. 

It happens when the voices grow to be too much. When Glenn demands Dimitri kill a prisoner in one ear and Ingrid begs him not to in the other. He can’t make sense of it, can’t make sense of anything. He can hardly see, can hardly hear; he feels as if he’s being torn in two and he lashes out, shouts, “ _Enough!_ ” and lunges, he doesn’t know where, but he raises his spear because he needs to—

Dimitri stops. 

The spear falls from his hand. It’s slow – unbearably, unnaturally slow, as if time itself has forgotten its relentless pace. The world comes back to light around him, the shadows gathered in the corners of his vision clearing. His whole world centers on a point, the _only_ point of contact he has with anything: a heavy body behind his, an arm across his chest.

A hand at his wrist, pressing hard. 

He turns his head. Red fills his vision first, then brown, honey-brown, bright and piercing. 

Sylvain. 

It’s Sylvain – warm, cheerful Sylvain, nudging his shoulder and trying to coax him into a night on the town. Laughing and smiling, all teeth and wine-flushed cheeks. And his eyes are – No. They’re wrong. Sylvain’s eyes are narrowed and angry. Strained. Fighting. 

_He’s going to kill you he’s going to hurt you—_

This is the Sylvain he’d met in the cathedral, reaching for Dimitri, searching for him. Laughing at a broken wrist. This is the Sylvain from the battlefield, dangerous and reckless and dying faster than Dimitri can chase him.

_He’ll hurt you he’ll kill you get out of there get out—_

Dimitri wrenches out of his grip. Reverses it. Spins on his heel, grabs Sylvain by the neck, pushes him against the nearest wall and digs his fingers in deep. He snarls wordlessly at Sylvain, presses harder on his throat when he coughs. 

“Your Highness—”

Sylvain chokes. Dimitri steps closer, close enough he can feel the heat radiating from Sylvain’s face, can feel him go limp before he sees it. The only part of Sylvain still moving is his right hand, rising until it rests on Dimitri’s forearm. And still, that laughter echoes in Dimitri’s ears, taunting him, scaring him—

“Dimitri.” Sylvain’s voice is calm. Clear, for all that it is strained.

The laughter stops. The ghosts fall silent. The world rights itself again, and Sylvain hangs in Dimitri’s grip, waiting for his neck to snap.

Dimitri lets go. 

Sylvain crumples to the ground, coughing and wheezing, on one knee in some twisted mockery of a knightly pledge. He reaches for Dimitri even as Dimitri backs away, catching the frayed hem of his cape and tugging on it.

“It’s okay,” Sylvain rasps. He coughs. Looks up at Dimitri with a broken smile on his face. “I’m okay.” 

Dimitri flees. 

* * *

The third thing Dimitri learns is that Sylvain _is_ afraid, after all. He just doesn’t care. 

For once, Sylvain is alone in the cathedral. Dimitri finds him sitting in one of the pews, face turned toward the altar, hidden in the shadows where the waxing moon cannot reach. His hands are clasped together lightly, elbows resting on his knees. If Dimitri did not know Sylvain better, he may have thought he was praying. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

Sylvain does not turn around. “Praying.” 

Dimitri nearly scoffs. “You have never been one for prayer.” He stops next to the pew, watches Sylvain out of the corner of his eye. 

“I don’t pray much,” Sylvain admits, easy. “But I do when I have something to pray for.” He stands. Offers his hand. “Join me?” 

Dimitri doesn’t take it. Sylvain lets his hand drop, but he moves over to make room anyway. Dimitri takes that, instead. “What are you praying for?” 

“Who we lost,” Sylvain says, eyes firm and piercing as he watches Dimitri sit. “Who’s still here.” 

The ghosts stir beside him. They move, drawn away, and gather around Sylvain as if he were their tether, not Dimitri. As if he were the one keeping them here. 

Sylvain stands almost as tall as Father.

He moves toward Dimitri, unaware of the late king, and sits down. Close.

Too close. Dimitri flinches back.

“Relax, Your Highness,” Sylvain says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’ll hurt you.” 

“You won’t.” 

“I have.” Dimitri’s eye lingers on Sylvain’s wrist, on his neck where the bruises had left have long since faded. 

Sylvain laughs. 

Dimitri _wants_ to hurt him. The ghosts sing in his ear to fight, the Crest in his blood aches to kill. He clenches his fist, swallows the urge, pretends he does not hear the laughter, the whispers, the memories. 

Sylvain takes his hand.

His grip is loose. Shaky. He trembles as he pulls Dimitri’s hand to him and places it on his chest. Sylvain is warm beneath his clothes; his heart thrums beneath Dimitri’s palm. Fast, faster, faster. His breaths come slow and shallow, controlled despite the rapid beat of his heart. 

Sylvain is terrified. 

“You won’t hurt me,” he repeats, voice as sure as anything. He kisses Dimitri, then, slow and light, and something breaks. An explosion of silence rings louder in Dimitri’s ears than even his ghosts’ most tortured screams in their repeated dying throes, and for once, all is calm.

But then Sylvain pulls away, and the noise returns, louder than ever, demanding action. 

He smashes Sylvain’s head against the back of the pew and stands, watching with horror as blood trickles down the old, dusty wood. 

And still, Sylvain smiles. “This is nothing,” he says. “You can’t hurt me.”

* * *

The final thing Dimitri learns about Sylvain is that he cares. He cares so, so much. 

He learns it after Rodrigue’s death, after the voices cease and his ghostly chorus retreats to the realm of dreams. Dimitri waits for Sylvain outside the cathedral under the light of the full moon, head tilted up and single remaining eye fixed on it. For the first time, he thinks he can see it clearly.

Sylvain arrives. Dimitri does not look at him. He feels Sylvain’s presence enough in the way the air shifts around them that he does not need to confirm it. 

“Why are you here?” he asks. 

Sylvain steps closer. He reaches for Dimitri, cups his face in one hand, tilts it down so they can see each other properly. “Because you asked me to come,” he says. 

“No.” Dimitri shakes his head. Sylvain’s hand slides to his neck, his shoulder. “Why are you _here_?” 

_Why didn’t you leave?_ he means. _Why do you keep coming back to me?_

The question gives Sylvain pause. His hand drops from Dimitri as easily as the smile drops from his face. He looks up at the moon, lets it bathe him in its pale, silvery light. Sylvain looks like a ghost, like this; Dimitri has to remind himself that he’s real. 

“Because I know you,” he says at last. “Better than you think I do.” 

“And how is that?” Dimitri’s voice is quiet. He steps closer to Sylvain and holds a hand out to him, hesitant. He has caused his friend so much pain already; will he—

“You can’t hurt me,” Sylvain says, just as he had all those many weeks ago. He takes Dimitri’s hand and lifts it to his lips. “That night you broke my wrist, I knew. We’re the same, you know.”

The same. Something settles in Dimitri’s mind, then, sliding into place like a sword in its sheath. The smiles, the laughter, the endless train of women; the way he kept coming back, kept trying to break through, even though he knew he would suffer for it. 

Dimitri can’t hurt Sylvain, because Sylvain is too good at hurting himself. 

“You lied to me,” Dimitri says. “You lied to all of us.”

“So did you.”

“You hid yourself from us. Pretended to be something you weren’t while you suffered alone.” It’s an accusation as much as it is a confession. Dimitri squeezes Sylvain’s hand. Sylvain squeezes back. 

“I showed myself eventually,” he says, almost flippant. “And so did you.”

And… yes, he had. Dimitri thinks back to the creature on the floor of the cathedral. That had been Sylvain, hadn’t it? Just as much as the cheerful, triumphant laughter after the Battle of the Eagle and Lion had been. Just as the bloodthirsty beast and the man who desires peace are both Dimitri. 

“You knew all along,” Dimitri says. “What I was like.” 

“I wondered.” 

“And you stayed with me.” 

“Your Highness.” Sylvain takes Dimitri’s other hand. “Dimitri.” He gets to his knees. Bows his head, holds those hands above him as if he feels unworthy of pulling Dimitri down with him. “I couldn’t let you suffer alone.”

Alone. Dimitri falls to his knees as well, and this time, he reaches for Sylvain. This time, he is the one to pull Sylvain close, to wrap his arms around his friend.

To kiss him. 

“Sylvain,” Dimitri whispers as they part, a quiet breath against his lips. “Stay with me. Remain by my side, and neither of us shall ever suffer alone.”

And Sylvain smiles.

They kiss again, there on their knees on the bridge before the cathedral. There, under the moon, Dimitri realizes that they are both still so, so far from being whole. But perhaps that does not matter: perhaps they are broken, and the cracks in their facades will remain. But as long as they are not alone, Dimitri can not mind. As long as they are together, they can prevent each other from falling apart. 

And perhaps that is all they need.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> And if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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